


Beneath the Stains of Time

by paperdream



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Adopted Sibling Relationship, Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Captivity, Found Family except instead of finding jon she kidnapped him, Gaslighting, Gen, Imprisonment, Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist & Alice "Daisy" Tonner Are Best Friends, Kidnapping, Neurodivergent Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Non-Linear Narrative, Panic Attacks, Pre-Canon, Teen!Jon, Time Travel, Time Travel Fix-It, but like mostly accidental gaslighting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-10
Updated: 2021-02-07
Packaged: 2021-03-14 15:26:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 15,753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28672956
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paperdream/pseuds/paperdream
Summary: Everyone but Daisy is long gone when she gets the chance to go back to before the Ritual. When she arrives in the past, still trying to sort out which memories are from the future and what it all means, it seems like the natural choice to kidnap 15-year-old Jonathan Sims.
Relationships: Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist & Alice "Daisy" Tonner
Comments: 74
Kudos: 276





	1. Daisy- Then

**Author's Note:**

> this is v much inspired by [this post](https://lectorel.tumblr.com/post/636598616456364032/daisy-joined-the-police-in-2000-and-the-minimum) by tumblr user lectorel :)
> 
> Title from "Hurt" by Johnny Cash

In the middle of her work day, Daisy Tonner was hit with a terrible headache.

At least, that was the best way she could think to describe it. It wasn’t _pain_ so much as tremendous pressure on the inside of her skull, an overwhelming wave of conflicting information and emotion manifesting all at once. 

When she unbowed her head and looked back out the windshield of her car, she was surprised to see the streets of London laid out before her. It was the same view that had been there before the headache, traffic trudging past the place she’d pulled over to eat her lunch. The normalcy felt disorienting on a level she couldn’t articulate.

She bared her teeth at the  pressure and confusion, a growl rising in her throat. She’d had a shorter temper, since being Sectioned, and when she was angry she felt safe, powerful. The pounding adrenaline was all she was, all she ever needed to be. She wasn’t supposed to draw on that feeling; she couldn’t remember why. 

It took a long time for the feeling in her head to start to resolve into images- memories,  but ones she didn’t recognize. Predominant were a pair of faces. She didn’t know the people they belonged to. She knew them better than she had anyone in her life, and she needed to see them. 

Daisy grabbed for her phone, and felt distantly surprised by its buttons and bulk, even though it had always been like that,  since she’d bought it as an indulgence with one of her first paychecks. The date that glowed onto the screen seemed to rattle through her brain like a marble down a track, somehow coming out the other end with the knowledge of how to find the people. Her people.

The first was in London, she felt sure. She could picture the building, and had a vague sense of where it was, but no address. She turned the car on and set out.

-

The building was a school. No one was in evidence at the moment, lunch already over and the end of classes a couple hours out, but Daisy knew her quarry was inside.  She drove around the block twice, giving out a handful of parking tickets and a warning for jaywalking, before parking across from the school to wait. Ever since signing her Section 31, no one had seemed to care much what she did, as long as she did  _something_ and showed up whenever someone called in another potential Section 31.

She sat back in her chair and tried to sort through the churning confusion of her mind. It felt like her attention was being drawn in a million directions at once, not enough to keep her from performing rote tasks like driving but too much to consider the reasoning behind her  own  actions.  A handful of other images had cleared enough to ferret out by the time the school’s bell made her jump and the building started to disgorge teenagers, but nothing useful.  Nothing that meant anything to her.

Her attention was fixed on the crowd as soon as the doors opened. The faces in her mind were adults, though. A teacher, maybe? She scanned the hordes of students anyway.

When she spotted the person she sought, if felt like a jolt of electricity down her spine. It  _was_ one of the students, a girl in a hijab, gesturing and smiling with her friends.  _Basira_ , her addled mind supplied. She could see the woman in her memory in the line of the teen’s nose, the stance of her shoulders; despite the age discrepancy, they were the same.

She wanted to go to her, but had no idea what she would do after that. Some part of her cried out that Basira needed her, and more importantly, she needed Basira. The teen making her way down the sidewalk didn’t look like she was in need of anything: her smile was genuine, her clothes well kept, her cheeks round and healthy. The woman in Daisy’s mind was grim and drawn.

Daisy watched until Basira vanished down into a Tube station. The girl was fine; she couldn’t go around accosting random teenagers because of memories- she felt sure they were memories and not some sort of delusion, though she couldn’t yet say why- she couldn’t trace the source of. She was fine. Nothing was going to happen that would prevent Daisy from coming back, when she knew more. She was fine.

She repeated it to herself as she started the car, as she drove away. Her muscles were stiff, and her eyes started to water with the desire to go back, to seize Basira in her arms and protect her from- what? She couldn’t picture the threat, only gory snapshots and pressing terror. But the Basira in those memories was an adult. Whatever the memory- premonition?- was, Daisy had time.  Right?

She was only able to tear her thoughts away when she realized  her limbs had moved automatically to follow the sense of the other person. It was a man, just as grim and drawn as the memory-Basira, with the addition of dozens of scars she couldn’t consider without an almost debilitating wave of guilt. She wondered if she’d find him like that, or as bewilderingly youthful as Basira. She couldn’t conjure up a name to match the face.

She could barely stand to stop at the station long enough to clock out, grateful her surveillance of Basira and grappling with the desire to follow her had taken the rest of the work day, allowing her to pursue her other target without delay. As she pointed her car out of London, the thought of pursuit made her blood jump, her thoughts fixed even more singularly on the man in her mind.  Her mouth watered at the thought of finding him.

-

The sun was low on the horizon as she arrived in Bournemouth, not setting yet but turning everything orangey gold in slanting lines. Once there, her precise destination was as vague as before; she was grateful, as she steered her car idly through town, eyes alert, that the vehicle was done up to blend in, painted normally and with the  police lights discretely tucked away. 

She tried to picture what the man might look like, if he was as young as Basira. Would he have the scars? She supposed some of them, the pockmarks dotted over his face, might be from acne. He wouldn’t have the gray streaked in his hair; would he have the glasses?

When she did spot him, she almost didn’t realize it. He was a boy, long and lanky, and the clearness of his skin jarred with every image of him she could pull out from the writhing mass in her head. Eyes behind chunky glasses skimmed over her car in disinterest. Despite the evidence in front of her, she found herself unable to picture him unscarred.

She turned the car around after he passed, waiting long enough that his back was nearly a speck in the distance before starting to slowly creep along behind him. School was well over now, but he still had a backpack hiked up on his shoulders, head bowed as though counting the cracks in the pavement. 

She couldn’t help comparing him to Basira. She’d wanted to keep the young woman safe, but that was nothing compared to how she felt about this boy. Something about Basira, maybe the way she held herself or the flashes of interaction Daisy couldn’t untangle, implied that Daisy’s help and protection was appreciated, but not wholly necessary, a feeling of reciprocity. Basira could, she was sure, mostly take care of herself. She felt no such surety about the boy.

There were other differences. Where Basira had smiled and chatted, the boy was alone, and scrawny in a way that couldn’t be entirely attributed to the ravages of growth spurts. His face much more closely resembled the drawn countenance of his elder self. His shoulders hunched, and gave the sense that if it were windier he might  simply be blown away. Something about him dredged up the horrible memory of her Sectioning  scant months (and yet a lifetime) ago , Isaac descending that impossible staircase, invisible force compressing her chest. The scar on her shoulder seemed to burn.

He didn’t notice his pursuer, and she didn’t know whether to  be  confident in her  own skill or worry about his lack of awareness. 

As she contemplated this, a pair of boys rounded a corner, an intrusion on the streetscape that had been only the boy and Daisy. She was too far to hear, but one of them called out to him, half a block downhill. She pulled over as her prey  _(no not that never that_ but why) turned and slumped back  up  to meet them.

The new teens were taller than the boy (she fought the urge to call him her boy, still couldn’t find his name) and looked a few years older. He didn’t make eye contact as they conversed, hands fixed on the straps of his bag as they postured and gesticulated. Her stomach clenched as she sensed where things were going, but could do nothing as one of the older boys’ faces morphed into a frown, then a mocking smile as he reached out and shoved her boy down the hill. He went down hard, tumbling and rolling a short distance down the pavement before coming to a halt, and something about that, seeing him suffer and being able to do nothing, felt sickeningly familiar. As the older boys ran off laughing, she barely felt herself stepping out of the car and crossing the street.  There was a fleeting impulse to give chase, to  _make them pay,_ but she choked it down and focused on her true target.

He didn’t seem to hear her lope across the street, or register her presence at all until she was crouched next to him. She could smell blood.

“You okay?” she asked, the act of speaking feeling bizarrely unfamiliar.

He started, meeting her gaze with wide eyes. “Um, fine!” He shifted, winced, and the source of the blood-smell revealed itself to be his knee and shin, a long scrape marring the knobbly limb poking out from his shorts.

“Sure?” She extended a hand, pulling him to his feet. He opened his mouth to reply, but seemed to reconsider as he wobbled on the injured leg. Blood dripped into his sock. “I have a first aid kit in my car, we could get that bandaged up,” she added.

The boy grimaced. “You don’t need to trouble yourself.” Contrary to his words, he looked down with some concern, though it seemed to be focused more on the stain spreading on his sock and threatening his shoe than the injury.

“No trouble. Car’s just over there.” She darted over to his other side, wrapping her arm around his waist so pressure was taken off the leg and walking before he had a chance to deny her a third time.

“Thanks,” he muttered.  His eyes stayed fixed down, the hand opposite her still clenched around the strap of his bag. 

“No problem.” She smiled to see she’d managed to park so there was a bench right next to the back end of her car. “Here, sit down.” She rummaged around in the boot while Jon- _Jon_ _!_ That was it! _-_ perched on the edge of the bench, looking like he was doubting his decision to follow her. His eyes darted to her clothes- she was still in uniform, she realized- and he relaxed slightly, before she could see his thoughts slowly build his anxiety back up and the cycle began again. 

“ Stuff like this happen a lot?” she asked as she got him to pull his leg up onto the seat of the bench and he squirmed his backpack off to make the position more comfortable. 

His eyes darted. “Uh, yeah, I guess. I’m pretty clumsy.”

He didn’t know she’d seen the bullies, then. “Your parents worry about you because of that?” She carefully cleaned his leg with alcohol wipes, and frowned at the length of the gash and the bits of ragged skin still clinging to the edges of it.

He grimaced. “Don’t have parents.” Had she known that? “I live with my grandmother.”

She hummed, pulling out gauze and bandages as she waited for the momentary awkwardness to pass. “You like your grandmother?”

“I guess.” He gave her on odd look. Daisy wasn’t entirely sure why she was asking, so she just  kept wrapping his leg. “She’s fine.”

She hummed again. The same protective impulse thrummed in her chest. Jon looked uncomfortably down at his leg as she started fixing the bandages in place. Did he look happy? Cared for? She got the sense that he wasn’t. “Are you happy?”

“What?” His gazed jerked up to her, eyebrows furrowed. Daisy set the first aid supplies aside.

“Are you happy, Jon?”

His shoulders hunched in, but then his eyes went wide. “How did you know my name?”

She considered him for a split second: the too-large secondhand clothes, the protruding bones, the way he’d tried to cover for the bullies and implied it was a regular occurrence. She’d already gotten closer than she had with Basira.  She’d convinced herself that Basira would be fine. But Basira had seemed happy. Jon seemed to shrink from attention, was still out wandering the streets as dinner approached instead of home. Sure, the early fall weather was still pleasant enough, but he still had his bag; had he even stopped home when school ended?

She thought of the coffin. Did Jon know exactly  _how_ dangerous the world was, beyond bullies and scraped knees? Whether he did or not, the mixed up headache-pressure part of her mind felt sure that  that part of the world knew about him. It also felt, down in her bones, that it was her job to keep him safe.

Jon’s arms were still behind him, holding onto the edges of the bench seat to steady him as she worked on his leg. It felt like the most natural movement in the world to take the handcuffs from her belt and click them shut around his skinny wrists, hand going up to his back to steady him as the loss of support tipped him backward. He needed to come with her, but she doubted either Jon or his grandmother would be easy to convince on that point. Her blood throbbed urgency.

He gasped in a little breath. “Hey!”She  pulled him  up  so he was sitting balanced on the bench. His eyes were wide and slowly growing scared. “Am I- am I under  _arrest_ ? I didn’t do anything!”

Daisy glanced at the empty street, mostly shops made ghostly by the ending of the tourist season. Jon’s voice was growing louder and shriller, and he was starting to stand. She swept her arm under his knees and picked him up. The boot was still open.

“Hey!” he yelled, then, breaths coming shorter and shorter as he started to panic, “Stop! Help!”

There was a fair bit of gauze remaining in the first aid kit. She stuffed some into Jon’s mouth, using another piece to tie it around his head. Jon grunted, flinching back from her. She gently pushed him so he was lying down in the boot. He rubbed his face against the carpeting for a second, trying to dislodge the makeshift gag, before he tried kicking out at her, then sitting up and climbing out. She could see the whites  of his eyes all the way around his irises as she grabbed the roll  of bandages and started to tie his ankles together. 

When Jon was secure, unable to sit up unaided without any limbs free, Daisy stepped back to the bench. She quickly tidied away the first aid kit, then set it and his backpack alongside Jon in the boot. There was a pleading edge to his muffled noises and she closed him in, and the last she saw before the latch clicked was wide, teary eyes. They tore at her heart, but she felt sure this was right, even if she couldn’t articulate why. She  would  unravel the mess in her head, and once she understood she could explain it to Jon, and he wouldn’t be so frightened any more.


	2. Jon- Then

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **CONTENT WARNING**  
> Jon speculates on the various reason someone might kidnap a teenager, touching on a variety of gruesome methods of murder and mutilation as well as fairly oblique references to sexual abuse and human trafficking

Jon squeezed his eyes shut, though it made no difference against the dark, and tried not to cry. He didn’t know whether breathing was difficult because of his fear or the material stuffed into his mouth. What if the boot was airtight! Should he be trying to… breathe less?

He didn’t understand how this could be happening. Sure, the strange woman had unnerved him a bit, with the hungry gleam in her eyes as she looked at him, and the uniform. He knew basically all the police in the area, from all the times they’d had to haul him home when he was younger, but he didn’t recognize her. Still, the uniform looked real, not like a costume, so he’d assumed she was passing through from somewhere else. Or a new hire, she was probably young enough. Still real police. Still _safe_.

Everyone always said not to get in cars with strangers, but he _hadn’t!_ They were only _near_ the car! They were in _public!_ Maybe Mrs. Cotton from the bookshop had been looking out from her flat above the shop and had seen. Maybe the real police were on their way. _They’d been in public._

That hope faded as the car kept going, and going, and going, and he never heard sirens behind them. The other objects shifted and banged into him occasionally. It was dark, and he could feel the small space pressing in on him even without being able to see its boundaries.

Breathing got harder again whenever his thoughts drifted to what the woman might want with him. The look in her eyes, the way her nostrils had flared at the smell of his blood, and she’d absently licked her lips at the sight of it. He was going to die. She was going to kill him, he was sure of it.

She’d known his name. He was _sure_ he hadn’t introduced himself, but she’d called him Jon. Had she been there longer than he thought, heard Mark or Tom use it? But they usually called him Sims, not Jon.

Had she been stalking him? How long had he been in danger without ever realizing?

Instead of letting himself cry (much he couldn’t stop he didn’t want to _be_ here), he rolled over the bitter irony in his head. He’d been saved from Mr. Spider by a bully (and he hadn’t thought of Mr. Spider in ages didn’t want to consider what about the woman had reminded him of the book even before she’d thrown him in here) and now a different set of bullies had provided the pretext for his actual murderer to get close. He hoped Gran wouldn’t be too upset.

She’d probably think he’d run away. They all would, with how many times the police had had to bring him back over the years. Would they even look for him?

They drove on for several small eternities, the scenery outside presumably changing in the way the darkness before Jon’s eyes never did. It hurt to have his arms pulled back, and he couldn’t lay his head down without landing uncomfortably on the knot of the gag or setting his glasses askew. No amount of squirming shifted any of his binds, and he stopped trying when a toss of his head nearly flung his glasses off into the limitless dark. He couldn’t stop jerking against the cuffs. Couldn’t you get out of handcuffs by dislocating a thumb? Could he manage that? The pain of the metal biting into his skin over and over felt like a release for all his panic and fear, the physical version of the scream he couldn’t get out.

When he finally felt the car stop and heard a door slam open and shut, the boot wasn’t opened. The space was too insulated to hear footsteps, but as time stretched on he felt sure she’d left the vehicle. Maybe she was getting whatever she would use to kill him, before driving out somewhere remote to do it. Maybe she’d toss the gun or knife or shovel in with him for the drive there and make him lie alongside it knowing what she would use it for. Maybe she would just leave him here forever.

It was as he was trying and failing not to think of car compactors (would he hear the machinery first would it be quick or would he feel every bone as it broke) that the lid finally opened. The rush of fresh air against his face stung cold against the wetness of tear tracks, and he hated that she was seeing him cry. He countered it with a glare and the loudest grunts and groans he could manage, not trying to form words so much as make as much noise as possible and hopefully attract attention.

He let out an abbreviated shriek as something heavy landed on top of him, cutting off his vision once again, and hands seemed to prod at him through whatever it was from every direction. He couldn’t parse what was happening until he was lifted up and out of the boot, his face pressed against a shoulder.

It was a quilt, a large one, wrapped around him so tightly he wasn’t sure he could have moved even if the cuffs and ties had fallen off at that moment. He realized with a sinking heart that it kept the gag and the cuffs and the ties hidden from curious eyes. He squirmed and kept making noise, hoping that that would signal to any onlookers that he was in distress, not a sick or sleeping person being carried.

He had no idea how long he’d been in there, but it was dark now. There might not be anyone still out _to_ notice.

A hand cupped the back of his head, holding him to the shoulder more tightly. “Shh. Do you want me to drop you?” She sounded like she was smiling. He froze at the threat.

He could hear the boot being shut again, and feel the cadence of his captor’s steps, but he couldn’t see where they were going with his face pressed into her shirt. Shortly, the outdoor air shifted to the still air of a building, and they started up a set of stairs.

Finally, a door was kicked shut behind them and he was set down on a couch. He blinked, shaking his head a bit to try to fix the awkward way his glasses rested on his nose from being smushed against her shoulder. The woman leaned in and adjusted them for him. Jon glared. She ruffled his hair with a slight smile. “I’ll be right back.”

He craned his neck to watch as she walked around the couch and out the same door they’d come in, and then he was alone.

Alone in what appeared to be an entirely normal flat. Small, a bit messy, but normal. He only felt at ease with the lack of bloodstains and torture implements for a moment before his stomach curled into knots again.

Between the way her fingers had laid against his skin just a bit too long as she’d bandaged him up and the soft, affectionate look in her eyes as she’d ruffled his hair… even Jon could add two and two and get four. He could see through an ajar door into the bedroom; the bed had a heavy wrought iron frame. Perfect for tying kidnapped teenagers to. He started to shake. Was she…? Or maybe he was going to be _trafficked_. He whimpered.

Maybe he could get the neighbors’ attention. This was a flat, not a house, there had to be neighbors nearby. Glancing around and finding nothing else, he leaned upward to bang his head against the wall, hoping the rhythmic thumps would attract help.

When the door opened, he flinched hard, ducking his head and pulling his knees upward as much as the bulk of the quilt would allow. He considered straightening up and trying to pretend he wasn’t scared before deciding he’d take whatever comfort he still had left and curling up tighter, shuddering.

Something dropped on the floor next to the couch and in his periphery he saw the woman kneel down beside him. She set a hand on his back, and he let out a squeak. “Hey, you’re alright, you’re alright.” She rubbed circles into his back in a parody of comfort as she murmured, too close to his ear, “It’s okay, Jon. You’re safe. You’re okay.”

Like she thought he was _stupid._

He made a keening noise through his nose and shook his head, vision blurring with tears. He couldn’t press any closer to the back of the couch, couldn’t get away from her hand.

“Jon.” She moved, and for a second he dared to hope she was going away, but then she settled on the couch and pulled him into her lap. He cringed and tried to squirm away, but could do nothing to stop her stroking his hair as she shifted him out of his balled up posture. “Were you hitting your head to make that noise?” She brushed hair away from his face, fingers resting lightly on his temple. “Are you hurt?”

He looked down, away, anywhere but at her. He wanted to be anywhere else. He wanted to go home. Tears dripped down and dotted the quilt. She pushed his hair back from his forehead, palm flat against his skull and tilting his head upward slightly. “Jon. I need you to tell me if you’ve hurt yourself.” She forced him to meet her eyes, face more serious than he’d yet seen and voice stern.

He hadn’t hit his head very hard, just enough to make a sound. He shook his head, moving enough under her hand that a curl came loose and fell back in front of his eyes. She pushed it away, then rested her thumb under his eye, wiping away the tears there. More welled up as he pictured how easy it would be for her to push that thumb into his sockets. How much would that hurt? How far would she have to get before he couldn’t see from the afflicted eye anymore?

Her hand hovered around the gag, as though she was considering removing it. He made a pleading noise, made his eyes go wide. If she took it out he could yell, bite, _something_.

She looked over his head, glancing around the flat and then back at him. For a moment, her face dropped into exhaustion. He _hated_ her. What right did she have to be _tired?_ Before he could get too angry, the expression set into something like resolve. Jon shivered and tried to shrink into something too small to be noticed.

The arm around his shoulders squeezed tighter for a moment before he was shifted around again. Then her arm went back under his knees and he was being carried again.

He started to panic when he realized they were headed to the bedroom. Without thinking, he started to thrash, making as much noise as he could to register his objections. The arms around him tightened instead of dropping him. When they did let him go, it was to bounce onto the mattress. He couldn’t _breathe,_ he wanted this to stop!

“Relax,” she said, leaning over him. He jerked in fear, but she only pulled on the quilt so it was fixed tighter around him. The she pulled the blankets on the bed over him, tucking their ends under the mattress so he was held tightly in place. “It’s just a bed. You’re fine. Maybe try to catch a nap; I’ll be back in just a bit.”

Before he could fully register what she was saying, she was gone.

-

Jon did not take a nap. There was nothing he could make noise with on the bed, and he couldn’t move enough to roll off or get a proper look around the room. By his best guess, he was only left alone to sweat under the blankets and speculate on what would happen to him for about an hour.

He couldn’t stop working his wrists in the handcuffs, the motion almost instinctual after doing it for hours in the boot.

He could hear the woman return and move around her kitchen as thought she was back from a normal round of grocery shopping. The smell of something fried and spicy reached him in the bedroom, and he was uncomfortably aware of how empty his stomach was. And how full his bladder was. How long had it been since this ordeal started? He wished she’d just come and do whatever she was going to do to him; at least then he’d _know._

When she came into the bedroom, she looked like she was trying to suppress a smile to look serious. It made him want to start crying again. He couldn’t imagine anything that might make her smile that went well for him.

She sat on the edge of the bed and untucked the blankets and unwrapped the quilt. It felt like he could breathe just a little easier, unencumbered by them. He wiggled and moaned a bit as she helped him sit up, trying to communicate how badly he wanted the rest gone as well.

She kept a hand on his back when he was upright, forcing eye contact again. “If I take this off, you’re not going to make a fuss or start yelling and screaming.” Jon nodded frantically; promises to kidnappers didn’t count, and he needed _some_ way to get help. Her gaze didn’t falter. “All you’re going to do if you _do_ start yelling is annoy me. I’m a police constable, no one’s going to bother calling the cops for you. If anyone asks what the racket’s about, I’ll tell them that my little brother’s come to stay with me, and that you have paranoid delusions. I’m really sorry for the bother, things are bad now because we’re switching his medications. Everything should quiet down within a couple weeks.” She said the last part in an affected, genial tone, just how she would convince the hypothetical neighbor. Jon stared. Could she really do that? Just… convince everyone he was crazy?

Maybe if she untied him he could run out of the flat. If they actually saw him, anyone could see he and the kidnapper didn’t look anything alike, so she obviously wasn’t his sister.

At least now he had an idea of how long he had before she killed him. Or… did something else. A couple weeks…

She seemed to take his motionless silence as agreement, and started pulling at the knot of the gag. It came out in a coughing, spitty mess. She wrinkled her nose and left him swallowing and working his jaw, probably throwing it away. Maybe the police would find it with his DNA on it. Only they wouldn’t, because she _was_ the police. Unless she was lying?

When she came back it was with a glass of water, which she set on the nightstand before coming up behind him to unlock the handcuffs. He stiffened, trying to turn his head enough to watch her in his periphery without being obvious. “What are you going to do to me? Who _are_ you?” He hated how small and scared his voice came out.

The cuffs clicked open, and Jon brought his hands around to his front so fast his shoulders clicked. He bit down the pain, rubbing at his wrists. They were red, and the skin was broken in places, smeared with drying droplets of blood. The flesh around his thumb felt numb. The woman moved closer, sucking in a breath. “Don’t touch that.”

She left again, returning with a different first aid kit from the one in the car boot (what did she need so many for). She sat on the bed, pulling his hands into her lap. He tried to jerk away, but she held them in place. “How did you even manage to make yourself bleed? I’ve _never_ seen someone cut themselves up like this. _And_ they’ll probably bruise, too,” she tutted as she started cleaning the area. “Only you, Jon.”

He flinched. “You don’t even _know_ me!” He could feel sobs crawling up his throat to choke his words off, but he managed to get the sentence out ahead of them. What right did this woman have to sigh over him and act at though she knew what he was like?

She glanced up at him, a complicated look on her face, before sighing and returning to his wrists. They sat in silence as she worked. Jon could feel his lip starting to tremble with the difficulty of keeping himself from crying, but he didn’t want to give her the satisfaction. At length, she said quietly, “I’m Daisy.”

“What?” he blurted out. He froze; he wanted to cover his mouth, but his hands were still in… _Daisy’s_ grip. He couldn’t help it, it was such a nonthreatening name it surprised him!

She snorted and finished with the bandages on his wrists. “Scar on the back of my shoulder. Got it when I was a little younger than you, doctor said it looked like a daisy.” She passed him the water from the nightstand, watching intently as he cautiously sipped at it. He hadn’t realized how dry his throat was.

“Oh.” He cradled the glass close to his chest, watching as Daisy made quick work of the ties around his ankles. He scooted to the edge of the bed and kicked his legs, reveling in the freedom of movement. His eyes flicked to the door out of the flat.

Daisy’s hand landed firm on his shoulder.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> find me on tumblr @inklingofadream for progress updates and occasional pre-publication snippets :)


	3. Martin- Now

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> not fully pleased with this, but i have to get /something/ out or i'll lose my mind. expect p slow updates on this and all my other stuff... somehow i failed to anticipate the effect of taking 21 credit hours on my writing output! 🙃

As if it wasn’t enough to have the job transfer sprung on him out of practically nowhere (Mr. Bouchard’s email must’ve just gotten lost, it wasn’t as though Martin kept his inbox particularly well organized, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t a  _shock,_ although the slight pay raise was good news ) his first impression on his new boss had to be  _this_ . Diana didn’t think too much of him, since she remembered back when he was new and  _really_ didn’t have any idea what he was doing, even though he’d improved a lot since then, but she at least wasn’t liable to  _fire_ him. He didn’t think Jonathan  Tonner would be so forgiving.

He chewed anxiously on his lips as he hustled through the Archives, not wanting to run but not willing to dawdle. He was an idiot, he should have guessed that the man in a suit in the only room that looked like a proper office would be the Head Archivist.  Who else would he be?! 

He just had to find the dog quickly, and everything could be fine. He didn’t feel as confident in that statement as he had  _before_ he had asked his boss if he’d seen the dog as part of his efforts to get rid of  it before said boss found out, but it would be fine. He  _needed_ to keep this job.  How difficult could it be to find a dog in an archive, anyway?

Martin’s stomach tied itself into knots as he realized the Archives were quite a bit bigger than he’d thought, and even more bafflingly organized than he’d known. What had Mrs. Robinson had against nice, orderly lines of shelves? She may have been a bit dotty, but moving them to form a labyrinth like this seemed beyond the capabilities of one little old woman. Who had she got to help her?

The dog hadn’t had a collar, it was almost certainly a stray. Even if it didn’t damage anything outright, it might still have fleas! Did fleas damage documents the way other insects did? What if the dog gave his new boss fleas?

He was so focused on scanning for signs of movement at dog-height that he didn’t notice the woman until he’d collided with her. 

“Sorry!” He stumbled backward, jerking his eyes up to meet hers. She was tall, with choppy blonde hair and a muscular build. Intimidating. “Sorry, I didn’t see you.”

The woman smiled crookedly, looking unperturbed by the collision. “’S fine.”

He waffled awkwardly for a moment. “You’re… Sasha?” He’d thought he’d known the Sasha being transferred to the archives by  her face, but it was entirely possible there was more than one.  It didn’t seem likely anyone else would make it past the new Archivist. 

Her expression flickered strangely before she snorted, huffing a strand of hair out of her face. “No, I’m Daisy. I’m Jon’s sister, figured I’d help him move his things down from Research and then he said there was a dog…?”

Martin cringed. “Right. The dog.”  Maybe he wasn’t as much of a stickler for protocol and whatnot, if he’d let his sister down. Or those exceptions were only for himself, and wouldn’t be extended to his subordinates. Certainly not to the ones who let stray dogs inside.

Daisy nodded and strode off, gesturing for Martin to follow, head cocked to listen for any telltale noises. She seemed much more confident navigating the maze of shelves than Martin was, and he trailed a few steps behind her. Should he break off to search on his own? Only now that she was here, Daisy’s confident movements made the idea of finding his own way through- and eventually out- of the Archives feel that much more intimidating.

“ I’m Martin, by the way,” he muttered lamely as he trailed in her wake. She just nodded  again , not looking back.  He was just about to make another go at conversation when Daisy’s entire body went stiff, as though she saw or heard something he couldn’t, and she darted around a corner.

Martin jogged to catch up, rounding yet another row of haphazard shelving to see Daisy rising from a crouch, unapologetic stray  panting happily in her arms.  The surrounding files and boxes seemed unharmed.  Tension he didn’t know he was carrying flowed out of his shoulders. “You found him.”

She nodded, jerking her head for him to continue following as she made her unerring way out of the shelves and back into the bullpen. He felt somewhat useless as he followed, neither able to capture the dog nor make his way through his own workplace unassisted. How  _did_ she know her way around so well?

A vaguely familiar man, one of the faces Martin knew but didn’t  _know_ from around the Institute, ambled into the bullpen as they emerged. His eyes locked on Daisy’s burden. “Is that a dog?!” 

She ignored him, instead glancing over her shoulder at Martin,  mouth still crooked in that smile . “Don’t take Jon too seriously, his bark is worse than his bite.” Without any further comment  beyond a chuckle at her own joke , she loped out of the Archives entirely.

Martin and the other man stared at each other. “...Right,” Martin started. “I’m Martin. Blackwood. I’m guessing you’re Tim?”  
The other nodded. “You work in the Library, right?”

“I used to,” he said carefully, wary that Tim’s reaction would be in line with Jon’s. “Mr. Bouchard reassigned me to the Archives. We’ll be working together.”

Tim smiled. “Alright. Any preference to which desk you take? If we don’t pick before Sasha gets here she’ll decide for us.”


	4. Daisy- Then

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the degree to which this isn't my homework.. incredible

Clarity came and went, her entire path, purpose, and past laid out clearly on some days, while on others Daisy was as muddled and confused as the very first. She tried taking notes, on the better days, but when a bad day came along again and she tried to parse them she was always left with the conviction that she was losing her mind, that nothing she’d written made sense, that she needed help. But on the good days everything was so real and true and immediate, memories she could never have imagined, not matter how deeply she might fall into delusion. She couldn’t create _that_.

Jon was one of the few constants, no matter how clear or confused her thoughts were. On her bad days, when all she had was the entrenched feeling that he was _hers_ to take care of and protect, seeing him settled something deep inside her, not matter how slumped and miserable his affect. She knew it wasn’t because she was losing her mind, losing touch with reality; seeing him upset stung every bit as badly as it should have; stung worse, hurt her more deeply than others’ emotions ever did. If she was truly detached from morality and reason, too deeply entrenched in obsession and greed, the look on his face that first morning, when he saw she’d replaced the knobs on the bedroom and bathroom so that they locked, sturdily and from the outside, while he’d slept, wouldn’t have felt like someone tearing off pieces of her soul.

The good days came with guilt, as well. She could see the hand of the Hunt in her muddled actions, the thrill at finding her quarry, the bloody urge to protect at any cost, the high of adrenaline at having someone at her mercy. All the things she’d sworn she’d resist, sworn she wouldn’t turn on _Jon_ of all people again. All blindly indulged. He was so _young_. She’d never seen him without the worm scars except in pictures, but here he was, unmarked by Corruption or any of the rest, haunted by the afterimage of scars in her memory even when articulating their source felt like gibberish.

So many things felt _less_ complicated on the good days, but never Jon. If the sight of him hiding tears or flinching from her touch ached when she could barely remember why he was so important to her, it felt like dying by inches when she did. Everything struck harder when she could make sense of the memories that made her painfully aware of how small he was, how expressive, how _alive_. When she had the knowledge to recognize that having him here was pure selfishness, that whatever she’d thought in those first addled hours, the threats to Jon’s safety had none of the immediacy that might justify what she was doing to him.

She wouldn’t give him back, though.

It wasn’t as though she _could_ , she reasoned, not when he knew her name and her face and her job and would almost certainly get her arrested. She couldn’t do what she needed to from prison. If she returned him to his grandmother now, his brief association with her might very well put him in greater danger than before, and there would be nothing she could do to protect him. Having him there kept her herself, reminded her to keep the bloody, panting beast on a short leash, kept her _human_. There were a thousand ways to argue that the benefits of keeping Jon with her, especially once she finally convinced him she didn’t want to hurt him, that she cared about him and wanted him safe and happy (she had to believe that she could, that she would, that he wouldn’t be this miserable, frightened shadow forever- a shadow that was still better than the empty specter of her memories) outweighed the risks and harm.

She knew, though, in the deepest, most honest parts of herself, that none of those rationalizations were why she wouldn’t- couldn’t- let him go. She was _selfish_ , and she’d been lonely for so long, and even if he were the most capable, confident, competent person in the world she could never really _believe_ Jon didn’t need someone looking out for him. She wanted the companionship, the reassurance, the living, breathing proof that she was making some kind of difference (a negative one, she thought in the dark hours where she lay on her makeshift bed on the sofa and listened to Jon muffling cries on the other side of the bedroom door, but a tangible one, proof that her presence, her knowledge, weren’t futile, that things weren’t fated to be as they’d been). And it was all too easy to take the bits of Jon’s childhood she knew and the things the parenting and psychology books she’d checked out from the library, kept tucked under the sofa where Jon wouldn’t find them, said about “unconditional positive regard” and “ attachment” and conclude that he _could_ be better off with her. She knew his ears were always perked for mentions of his own name, when she turned on the evening news; it ate at her that she’d been barely able to find mention of his disappearance anywhere, in the news or at work, even as she let it reinforce the conviction that he would be better off, better loved, with her. She hated the despair that ate at Jon’s expression with every day it seemed no one was looking for him. It felt right, an echo of comfort clawed out of cold earth and unimaginable pressure, to hug this growth-spurt-frail teenager close, even as the culpability for the purpling bruises climbing his wrists turned her stomach.

It was all good reasoning for the part of herself that was continually drawn to thoughts of Basira, as well. The flat wasn’t big enough for two people, let alone three; hazy memories told her nothing bad would happen to Basira for years yet; Jon couldn’t look out for himself the same way she could; Basira was cared for and happy in a way Jon hadn’t been. Daisy grit her teeth and reminded herself that whatever settling of her soul she’d gain from taking Basira, it would be outweighed by what she’d be stealing from her, things Jon hadn’t had to lose, friends and connection and security. She could make up for what she was taking from Jon, she had to, she was sure of it; she’d never be able to remedy that lack if she took Basira (she missed her wanted confirmation she was there and alive both the people she cared about under her watch).

Keeping Jon was criminal, and arguably cruel as well. She was too selfish not to. She’d just have to figure out how to avoid suspicion, and how to… convince Jon to _want_ to stay. How to keep him from leaving (escaping she should at least be honest in her own head) in the mean time.

She clutched at the idea of taking care of Jon, through days where the pounding-pressure headache returned with such force that she could only think of how important he was, how much she needed him safe, and days where she was haunted by the remembered-unremembered specter of his older self, shuddering away from a knife at his throat. She’d do better than that, better than her past-future self and better than Jon’s grandmother and better than the half-recalled figments of people who’d claimed-would-claim to care for Jon and abandoned him when he needed them most. She just had to be consistent, and genuine, and gentle, and eventually he’d come around; she _had_ to believe that.

-

Daisy spent the entire workday trying to build up confidence in her ability to explain things to Jon, as much as she could, her first really good day after taking him. None of it prevented her stomach from twisting with anxiety with every minute that brought the conversation closer.

She was always somewhat surprised to arrive home and see that the bathroom hadn’t been destroyed, unsure if he was waiting to act out until he had a better idea of her reaction or if wanton destruction just hadn’t occurred to him yet. Whatever the reason, she could tell that today Jon had even picked at his lunch and rifled through the books she’d left him, which was better than she’d hoped or expected (he needed to eat he was so clearly underfed she was supposed to _stop_ that). He was also curled up in the dry bathtub with a towel tossed over his head, impossible to tell whether he was asleep or silently crying. She’d make sure he took some blankets and pillows with him in the future, in case he was napping.

She smiled hesitantly, trying to seem approachable and nonthreatening. “Hey.” He sat up and wiped at his face, pressing his back against the wall.

She stepped into the bathroom, trying to go slowly and telegraph her movements. She was hit by a sudden memory of Jon, before the Change, flinching whenever she’d moved too fast. She hadn’t hurt this Jon like she had his older self, but she assumed the same principle might apply, and resolved to tamp down the urge for quick, casual affection.

Jon stared up with her, slumped and red-eyed. She reached out a hand in a silent offer to help him up. He just stared emptily. He wasn’t supposed to go blank like that, she was supposed to _fix it._

“What are you going to do to me?” he croaked, nose and throat still clogged from crying. Daisy tried not to tense; he hadn’t voiced his fear that clearly in all the days since she’d taken him. Maybe he sensed the conversation hanging on Daisy’s horizon like storm clouds, or maybe it was just luck that his burst of courage (she told herself it was courage and not despair or feeling so wrung out he didn’t care what happened, had to believe things would get better over time and not worse) had coincided with Daisy having herself together enough to answer.

She jerked her head. “C’mon. This is a couch kind of conversation.” She’d spent all day debating exactly how much to tell him. On the one hand, more information would probably make him more likely to stay, if he believed it; on the other, knowing about the Entities seemed like a direct route to attracting their attention.

He pulled himself up reluctantly, ignoring her hand once again. Daisy let it drop and led him out of the room, striding over to the couch. Jon stared at the door and his trainers lined up neatly beside it, unworn since she’d first made him take them off, with naked longing, but with Daisy within arm’s reach at her place on the couch he had little choice but to join her, pulling his knees to his chest. “What are you going to do to me?” he asked again flatly.

Daisy sighed. She wanted to pull him into her arms- the first version of him she’d known had liked being held, if he knew the person, but that man had both slightly greater trust in Daisy and a history of experiences with the Vast that may have made the idea of physical grounding more appealing. Instead she just looked at him across miles of couch. “I’m not going to do anything to you.”

Jon’s shoulders hunched. “You don’t have to lie. I’m not stupid.” There was a flicker of anger in that, and Daisy tried not to show her relief. Anything was better than that empty blankness, all too reminiscent of the Archive.

“I’m not, Jon. I’m not going to hit you, or hurt you, or anything else. I’d like for you to grow up happy and healthy and safe. That’s all.”

He looked at her in disbelief, betrayal that showed just how little he believed her flitting around the edges of his expression. “Why.”

Daisy scrubbed a hand over her face. “When you were younger, you found a Leitner.”

Jon went rigid. “How do you know that.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“You were- were stalking me, weren’t you? Before...?” His voice pitched higher as he stared at her, unwilling to put the word _kidnapping_ out into the world.

“No,” she cut him off before he could work himself up. “Something like that leaves… a mark. And if I could tell, so could- other things.” A slight bending of the truth, but more likely to be well-received than an outright refusal to explain how she actually knew.

Jon dug both hands into his hair, gripping tight. “So you took me because- because of Mr. Spider. Is he going to- to come back?” His breaths got shorter, the idea clearly a fear he’d considered before.

“There’s more than one monster in the world, Jon. Once you’ve met one, the others are more likely to take an interest.” She hated to take that bit of innocence away from him, to watch him curl into a ball at the confirmation he hadn’t met the sole terror in the world. Hated being unable to comfort him better as he hovered on the edge of hyperventilating, hoped the conversation would improve things after the initial pain, like lancing a blister.

“The book was years ago! Nothing, nothing came! You’re wrong! You’re lying!” His eyes were wide, lit with a frantic light.

“I’m not.” She kept her voice soft. She didn’t know _how_ to comfort him- if Jon even wanted to be comforted. “I just want to keep you safe. The more you cooperate with that, the more freedom I can give you. Try to run away, or make me use the story about the delusions, or try to hurt yourself or destroy things, the more time you’ll have to spend locked up. Whether or not you leave this flat, and how soon, is entirely up to you.” Was it really better to give him all the bad news at once? Too late to take it back now.

He was too stubborn not to try running away at least a few times, even with the implicit threat of unknown monsters. She doubted she’d be able to take him out in public any time soon. She realized with a pang that this Jon likely saw her similarly to how his adult self- original self? This Jon _would_ be an adult eventually, if Daisy had anything to say about it- had seen Elias. Inscrutable and vague, with too much power over his life and a plethora of empty assurances to keep him in line. Which didn’t set her expectations for his cooperation any higher.

“Just let me go home!” The tears were back, and Daisy wanted more than anything to pull him into her arms, but she was already being plenty selfish. She stayed on her side of the couch.

“I know you’re not going to believe me, or listen. You’re going to try to run. But Jon,” she leaned a little closer, hoping proximity would underline her words where touch couldn’t, “there is nowhere on this earth you can go where I won’t eventually find you and bring you back. Anyone you could go to with a chance at keeping me away indefinitely has motives far, far worse than mine.” She shuddered at the thought of him somehow seeking out Elias, or another avatar. She needed to make sure she didn’t push him into something _worse_ than the Archivist. “The sooner you accept that, the happier we can both be.”

Jon stayed curled up, crying and rocking back and forth.

-

Every moment, Daisy felt like she was finding new adjustments to make to ensure she could keep Jon in her life. Sometimes they were founded entirely in logic and reason: the notes she’d disseminated to the neighbors explaining that she’d taken in her younger brother, with the lie about his mental health and a description that was hopefully specific enough that they’d call her if they spotted Jon wandering alone without being identifiable if missing persons fliers for him ever did go out; the shy conversations with coworkers that would hopefully occur to them before the truth if Jon ever made it to the police; the locks and novels and workbooks and bandages that she hoped were enough to keep Jon occupied in the long hours he spent locked in the bathroom while she was at work, enough for the gashes on his wrists to heal right, enough to keep him caught up with his classmates (things would settle down he’d be able to go to a normal school again someday she wasn’t taking a normal life from him just putting it on pause). Other times, they seemed brought on by memories she could only sometimes grasp, automatic movements to bring home Jon’s favorite takeaway (he’d never told her what it was), to withdraw money from an account belonging to a man she’d never heard of (though the vague gratitude for the information, the visceral dislike for whoever “Peter Lukas” was, and the gut-punch shock of the eye-watering balance confirming her conviction that he’d never notice her occasional thefts stayed with her just fine). The camera was one of those.

She’d been poking through the shelves of one of the secondhand shops between the station and her flat (and all of which had been seeing her much more frequently since Jon brought the need for twice as much food and a bigger place to live and an entire wardrobe of clothes for a growing boy with him) when she saw it, a battered but cared-for Polaroid camera with half a dozen boxes of photo paper sitting next to it. It was one of her worse days, when she could barely make heads or tails of the new impulses and feelings that had been pressed upon her (one of the days that brought her a dissonant sympathy for dementia patients, stealing away reasoning and memory in flashes and bursts before forcing them back into her skull in dribs and drabs) and the sight of it made her stomach twist in anxiety. She was struck by the feeling that she’d been forgetting it, that she _needed_ it to keep Jon safe, to make sure he was _himself_. It felt weighted with the same feeling as knowing she was being called out to a likely Section 31, only tinged with an edge of reassurance. She couldn’t sort out the disparate threads explaining the need, but she knew that the camera was a protection, of sorts, not the source of her unease.

She bought it alongside a handful of shirts that she hoped Jon would like, the complicated algebra of determining the tastes of a teenage boy further obscured by the layered not-memories in her head and his continued reluctance to do or say anything he thought might anger her. She tried to shove down the feelings about the camera and she finished making her way home. Jon always noticed when she was off like that, even if he thought she didn’t see the way his movements were stiff and cautious whenever her thoughts were occupied with the weird stuff (the way his eyes had widened in horror and he’d started _shaking_ the time she’d come home with blood speckled across her blouse). There were plenty of other reasons to buy an instant camera; she could have pictures of Jon without having to risk him being recognized by the person developing them; she’d finally have something to show her coworkers when they made inquiries into “that brother of hers,” proof that Jon was real and with her even when she wasn’t by his side. If she put the photos on display, folded them and tucked them in her wallet, framed a few, maybe the part of Jon that was sure his stay was temporary and she was going to somehow get rid of him would be won over.

Finally back in the flat, Daisy made a clattering production of moving to the kitchen, out of sight of the bathroom and bedroom doors, once she’d undone the lock to let Jon out. She knew he treasured the moments where he was able to move freely and out of her sight; she tried to give him that comfort whenever she could, whatever scraps of privacy and movement she could afford him trapped in the small flat with her. She was looking for a bigger place, where Jon could have more space of his own; he would be happier, then, she was sure of it.

She fiddled with the camera as she listened to Jon creep out of the bathroom and dart into the bedroom, door remaining pointedly open, so she couldn’t lock it without him being forewarned (she wished he could trust her more than that). She knew he was most likely trying to work together pieces of a plan to escape, but she tried not to let it bother her; she couldn’t- _shouldn’t_ \- interfere when he hadn’t done anything yet, and she was confident she’d be able to get him back before he did any real damage when the attempt finally came. She quietly hoped that letting him really try, and bringing him back anyway, might help Jon come to terms with the fact that he wasn’t going anywhere, in a way stifling any attempts might not. She loaded the papers into the camera and took a few experimental shots of the kitchen, playing with the focus and distance before awkwardly turning it to point it at her own face. It came out crooked and off-center, but the concreteness of an unshifting representation of her appearance settled whatever anxiety had drawn her to the camera.

She made her way back into the main area of the flat, taking care to make her steps loud and distinct as she settled on the sofa, nearly toppling the bedding piled on a side table to make her makeshift sleeping quarters available for daytime use with an elbow.

“Jon, y’have a minute?” She tried to seem as though everything were normal, hoping that not acknowledging the truth of the situation unless Jon brought it up first might help him acclimate, trying not to act as though she expected tears or hostility even as she braced to react correctly.

Jon crept into view in the bedroom doorway, shoulders tucked up and arms wrapped around himself, not meeting her eyes. “Yes, Daisy?” His voice was quiet, subdued, none of the sharp edges she knew he could have. At least he was talking, nothing like the stomach-twisting reminder of the days after her explanation when he’d remained totally silent, barely moving without prompting.

The scrape that had first brought her into contact with him was covered with a regular bandage and hidden beneath jeans whose hems dragged along the carpet, just a bit too long, but his wrists were still wrapped in gauze. He picked at the sores there when he was anxious, which as nearly all the time (the thought made her stomach curdle) and Daisy hadn’t been able to come up with a means of stopping him that wasn’t outright draconian. He made a sad figure, but she brought the camera to her face and clicked the shutter anyway.

Jon’s head jerked up at the sound, eyes wide and owlish. His eyes flicked between her face and the camera as she shook the photo and watched the image fade into view. Daisy smiled, trying to keep the edges gentle (she’d never been good at gentle or reassuring but this was _Jon_ she had to learn). “C’mere!”

He took a faltering step forward, and she kept waving her hand to beckon him closer until he was within arm’s reach and she could pull him in, trying to keep her grip gentle and slow, so he could pull away if he wanted. Jon let himself be pulled up to the sofa and down into Daisy’s lap, let her wrap one arm around his waist and tuck his head under her chin as her free hand held out the camera in front of them. “Say cheese!”

His spine stayed stiff as Daisy held the photo where they could both see; she grinned- it was a good picture, even with the contrast between her own happy grin and Jon’s cautious bewilderment. He didn’t look scared- she’d take it. “What do you think?”

Jon pulled his shoulders in even tighter. “It’s- it’s good?”

She pressed an impulsive kiss to the top of his head (she’d never been so tactile before but the awareness that crept in and out was starving for it wished she could hold Jon against her chest every night the way she had the first night, when there hadn’t been a lock on the door yet and she’d needed to keep him from creeping out of the bed and the flat) and loosened her arms, making it clear that he could move if he wanted. Jon rocketed to his feet, and she tried to suppress the part of her that was hurt at that, reminded herself that building trust was a process and they weren’t exactly starting on the most solid ground. She held out the camera to him. “Wanna try?”

He glanced from side to side, as if someone else would appear and reveal the correct answer. “You don’t have to, but I got plenty of film for it. It’s fun.”

After a long pause Jon took it, just holding it and staring as Daisy took her little collection of pictures and went back to the kitchen, rifling through a drawer for a pen so she could mark each with the date and the name of its occupants. Further investigation into the drawer failed to turn up any magnets, so she settled for tape, affixing the trio of images in a wobbly row across the front of the refrigerator. She felt bright and happy, even as she glanced over to see Jon still standing where she’d left him, staring down at the camera in his hands. She’d need to get magnets, but family pictures on the fridge- that was domestic, normal. Jon _deserved_ normal, deserved things that made it clear he was important to her, deserved to have those categories overlap, and she was determined to give them to him wherever she could.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> find my rambling and occasional writing updates on tumblr @inklingofadream! <3


	5. Jon- Then

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> jon out of the flat what crimes will he commit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNINGS:  
> -Jon again references the idea that this is part of some kind of human trafficking scheme  
> -panic attack, light dissociation, scab picking, questioning reality*  
> -general use of "crazy" in a v negative sense and subpar treatment of Jon bc they think he's having delusions  
> -references to suicide/self harm (bystanders draw a conclusion based on the belief that jon is seriously mentally ill and bandages on his wrists from his injury in previous chapters, jon later references this idea again)
> 
> *I know this one especially can really get some ppl and it's the main thing that happens outside of brief references, so more detailed/spoilery description in end notes

Ever since Daisy brought the camera home, Jon had spent part of every day keeping obsessive track of how many pictures decorated the refrigerator. They were nearing the end of even the most liberal interpretation of “a couple weeks,” and if she was going to- sell him, or something (it seemed less likely than it had, with how possessive she was, but the idea still made him sick to his stomach), the pictures could be part of it. Sometimes, new pictures would go up without him noticing, candids he hadn’t noticed Daisy taking, but all the photos he knew about were accounted for. It wasn’t much of a reassurance.

Interacting with Daisy was like meeting a new person every day. He never knew whether she’d be talkative or taciturn, let him take refuge in another room or keep him at her side all day.  He tried to make himself as uninteresting as possible, hoping that he could make her lose interest, but on her more expressive days he could tell that Daisy apparently found watching him  do everything from eat to daydream  endlessly delightful,  eyes dancing as she would stare at him for hours without interruption . 

For all the inconsistency, he still hadn’t seen her angry. He’d never been very good at reading people, it was part of why he’d never had many friends and why he always seemed to get into unintended trouble with Gran, but it turned out that even he could learn, with his life depending on it. He saw the times when Daisy was _almost_ angry, the way her motions went jerky and her mouth twisted into a snarl. And so far every time that had happened, he had also seen her pull herself back, nostrils flaring in calming breaths as she forcibly untensed her shoulders. The handful of times she’d caught him watching while that happened she’d ramped the doting up to almost unbearable levels for the rest of the day. Before she spotted him looking, he noticed an uncomfortable number of glances directed at him as she calmed down. When the dam finally broke and all that pent up rage came out, he had no doubt as to what would be in the cross-hairs. The jury was still out on whether he would survive it.

Daisy knew he was planning to escape. She’d  _told_ him as much, and technically not even warned him not to try, just said she’d find him. But Jon was fairly certain she was aware of most of his plans and preparations. Why else would she have waited until the day he’d  finally  finished searching the bathroom for anything useful, down to the screws in the cabinets (all tightly affixed, not even a tiny bit loose), to finally tell him her  _supposed_ reason for kidnapping him? He’d been so careful, so sure that he’d managed to put everything exactly where it had been, leaving no trace of his search, but evidently not. 

If Daisy knew he was trying to escape, and wasn’t actively interfering, then the open door was a test. It was  _obviously_ a test, no matter how  short the absence Daisy had never failed to lock him in the bedroom or bathroom when she left the fla t . She hadn’t even been subtle in setting it up, asking him to help put the groceries away and slapping her palm to her forehead after only a few minutes, loudly cursing and declaring that she’d left the milk in the car. She’d darted out without even fully closing the door to the flat, much less locking Jon up. The sliver of light he could see shining through from his position in the kitchen was an obvious trap.

That didn’t mean he could look away, though. Just because it was a trap, he reasoned, didn’t mean it couldn’t  _also_ be the mistake that let him slip her grasp. Could he really forgive himself if he let the opportunity go?

If she had only forgotten the milk, he didn’t have long to act. Jon tiptoed to where his trainers rested, neatly lined up alongside Daisy’s  work boots and trainers, and shoved his feet inside, not bothering with the laces.

He’d half expected Daisy to be waiting behind the door, never having left at all, so she could grab him by the ear and put an end to his escape before it started,  lay into him for failing the test . It was almost  alarming to be met with an empty hallway. 

He didn’t let that slow him for long, taking off without any real destination in mind. He needed a phone, and he needed to be far enough away when he used it that Daisy wouldn’t immediately find him. He rocketed down a flight of stairs at random and skidded to a stop in front of the nearest flat. Hopefully she’d assume he either went to  a neighbor close r to her flat or all the way to the street, and not think to  search the floors in between until it was too late. He hammered frantically on the door.

The woman who opened it  and peered out  past the chain lock didn’t have much in common with Gran, aside from being old and having a face pinched with displeasure at  something Jon had done , but the sight of her (of the  first real person he’d seen since Daisy took him) made his heart ache.  Before he could gather the breath to say a word, she snapped, “What do you want?”

“I- I need- I’ve been kidnapped, I need to phone the police!” He’d been so caught up in the  _getting out_ part of escaping he’d sort of assumed he’d know what to say when the time came, but his words felt jumbled and confused. It felt like eons since he’d had to talk to anyone but Daisy, and his interaction with her was as brief as he could manage.

The woman looked him up and down with a critical eye, taking in the dragging hems on his jeans and his trailing shoelaces. “What’s your name?”

Of all the responses he might have anticipated, he hadn’t imagined that one.  Panic to match his own or outright disbelief, maybe, but not this detached evaluation.  “I- it’s Jon, please, I need to call the police before she notices I’m  gone !”

The woman hummed, and shut the door. Jon’s heart dropped, and he started frantically trying to choose another door to try, when he heard the rattle of the chain and the door opened again, all the way. “Come in.”

The flat was exactly what he might have expected from any of Gran’s friends, only arranged in an eerie mirror of his recent purgatory. The woman snapped bony fingers and pointed to a couch with an afghan draped neatly over the back. “Sit.”

“But-”

“I’ll go use the telephone. Sit down and stay put.”

Her tone brooked no argument, and he didn’t want to waste the time it would take to leave and find someone else to let him make the call, so Jon sat.  T he woman disappeared around the half wall that separated the living room and kitchen. 

He felt like his thoughts were drifting out of his body, separated by the familiar-unfamiliar surroundings and the rush of adrenaline. When he tried to strain his ears to hear the soft conversation happening in the next room, it was drowned out by the rushing in his ears. Had he given her enough information to tell the police? He could give more, if she’d just let him make the call himself! He jiggled his leg at a frantic pace and tried not to start pulling at the bandages on his wrists.

He had no idea how much time passed before the old woman reemerged from the kitchen and forced a mug into his hands. “Drink that.”  She glared at his bouncing leg. He stopped moving.

“Are they coming?” He noticed her own tea was in a delicate-looking teacup on a matching saucer. He looked down at his mug. It had a  scratched and faded picture of Mickey Mouse on it.

“Someone will be here in just a bit.” She offered no further elaboration, sipping at her tea with her  full scrutiny on Jon.

He took awkward swallows of tea and tried not to wilt under the hawkish  gaze . The tea wasn’t very good. He realized his hands were shaking, and supposed it was a good thing she hadn’t given him a fancier cup.  How long was “a bit”? Hurry, hurry, hurry…!

It was fortunate he’d persisted past the subpar nature of the tea to pick at it, because if  the mug had been full the way he startled when the knock  at the door finally came would have splashed it everywhere. From the sharpness in her eyes, the old woman was aware of this.  He set it on the coffee table and stumbled to his feet, standing awkwardly to the side while she opened the door. He wrapped his arms around his torso with the faint idea that it might make things feel less like he was about to fall out of his own body.

“ Jon! I’m so glad you’re safe, don’t  _scare_ me like that!” 

In the time it took for the ice that had overtaken his body at the sight of her face to recede  from his limbs to rest in his lungs, Daisy rushed forward and pulled Jon into her chest, hugging him tight. This couldn’t be happening. It took several seconds before his body caught up to his brain and he started struggling in her hold. 

“ Thank you so much for helping Jon, I don’t know what I’d do if something happened to him!” Daisy addressed the old woman, paying no heed to Jon’s writhing in her arms. “Sorry for the inconvenience.”

“No, no, no,” Jon said, voice pitching higher with every repetition.

“No trouble at all,” the old woman said, her voice much softer than it had been to Jon. “It’s a good thing, what you’re doing.”

Daisy hummed abashedly. Jon tried to jerk around to look the old woman in the eye. “Please! She’s not- she’s not- she’s lying, she kidnapped me!”

“Still, I appreciate the help,” Daisy said. She ran a hand through his hair in a parody of comfort.

Jon’s words came farther and farther apart, interleaved with sobs. “Please, please help me!”

“Suppose you need all the help you can get, what with…” the old woman trailed off, and out of the corner of his eye Jon saw her casting a significant look at- his hands? No, the bandages. She thought…

“I didn’t do that, she did! Please don’t let her take me!”

Daisy hummed another assenting noise, not contradicting her. It was like he wasn’t even  _saying_ anything. “It’s been hard, but we muddle through.” Her arm snaked around his shoulders, turning him so he was pressed against her side instead of facing into her chest, and she started steering him forward, out of the flat. “ Thank you, Mrs.  Jansen !”

“No!” If the old woman wouldn’t help, well, this was a whole complex, someone else would hear! “Help! Help me!” Jon set his heels, trying to stay in the hallway as long as possible. If someone just  _heard_ , if they called the police-!

There were two doors in view of the old woman’s, and both  cracked open at the  commotion . Daisy gave the residents poking their heads out a strained smile and half a wave with the hand less occupied with keeping Jon in place. “Daisy Tonner.”

Both faces lit with understanding, and retreated behind their doors. The old woman’s was already shut. “Please, please help me! She’s  **not** my sister, help!”

“Come on, Jon,  this doesn’t have to be hard, ” Daisy said  tightly , bending and hoisting him into a fireman’s carry. He twisted and kicked. One of his shoes, still untied, flew off and he heard it hit something out of sight. Daisy sighed.

He kept yelling all the way up the stairs and back to the flat. A few more people looked out their doors, but all were easily dismissed with no more than Daisy’s name. One motherly-looking woman clicked her tongue sympathetically and said, “The  _sick_ boy , right? That’s hard.” No one responded to Jon’s increasingly desperate cries.  No one even acknowledged them.

When they arrived back in the flat and Daisy tossed him onto the bed, Jon bolted upright and scrambled for the door, all thought of strategy or patience gone. The lock clicked just as he grasped the knob, and he rattled it futilely and pounded against the wood, wracked with heaving sobs. No one had done  _anything_ ! They’d just called  _Daisy,_ just given him right back to  her and hadn’t even spoken to him directly.  It wasn’t  _fair._

He didn’t hear anything on the other side of the door for what felt like a long time.  Either Daisy had left or she was deliberately ignoring him.  Like all the neighbors. The white of the bandages around his wrists caught his eye, and he sat back on his heels (when had he gone to his knees?) and started frantically unwrapping them.

The sores underneath were exactly as he remembered them, pinkish and ragged where his anxiety had gotten the better of him and he’d picked the scabs off, the worst areas still bruised faintly green. He turned his hands- they went all the way around, just like he remembered. If- if they were right, if he _was_ crazy, if he’d- they wouldn’t look like that. Cuts didn’t look like that, he wasn’t imagining things, he _wasn’t_ _crazy!_

Now that he’d entertained the thought, though, he was fixated on it. It was easy to imagine what all those people saw, the boy who’d tried to kill himself and didn’t  understand where he was, the exasperated, saintly sister raising him in spite of it  all . It wasn’t real. He couldn’t imagine a whole  _life_ , couldn’t imagine hours in the boot or the feeling of a gag in his mouth. He yanked at a leg of his jeans, rolling it up to see the fading mark where he’d gashed his knee, back when his life was  _normal_ , when he  _had_ a life. The boy who was too disturbed to ever  be let out of his sister’s flat wouldn’t have access to pavement,  _couldn’t_ have a mark like that. He pressed his thumb into the pink patch, and tiny remnants of dead skin flaked away. It was real, Jonathan  _Sims_ was  _real_ (Jonathan Sims had never made the news no one was looking), he wasn’t crazy.

He flinched and crawled backward like a scared animal when the door opened. He bit his lip and stared up at Daisy.  His lost trainer dangled from one hand.  She looked tired,  irritated . Sad.  (But not angry it wasn’t over yet she wasn’t angry)

“I’m not, I’m not,” he stuttered, “I’m not crazy. I’m… I’m real.” He couldn’t disguise the question under the words, the plea for reassurance. 

If he was right, if Daisy was a kidnapper (she had to be he couldn’t forget a whole family and past and replace it with another she  _had_ to be) why would she tell him the truth?  It would be better for her if he believed the whole story, more convenient.  He couldn’t trust anything she said. He didn’t have anyone else to ask.

Her expression broke into something he couldn’t identify, and Daisy sunk to her knees next to him. He cringed away, but her hands stayed on her knees, not touching him. “Yeah, Jon. You’re real. You’re okay.”

“I’m not crazy,” he repeated, pulling his knees to his chest.

Daisy’s expression was soft. “No, you’re not crazy.”

He started to rock back and forth. Gran  had never liked it when he did that, but it felt soothing, right. “ You’re not my sister,” he tried,  saying it into his knees as he tucked his face inward. It meant he couldn’t see Daisy, but the close, dark space felt safer than the wide open bedroom,  even knowing it was only his own lap, not a separate location . 

Daisy sighed softly, not answering for a long time. “I’m trying to be.”

-

They stayed on the floor a long time, until the crying stopped and Jon’s breathing evened out. When he finally let Daisy lead him into the kitchen he felt wrung out, exhausted.

The milk was still on the counter, abandoned. He didn’t know how long it had been; maybe it had spoiled. His fault, if it had, for distracting Daisy and trying to run. Would she be angry with him?  The thought inspired none of the fear it had earlier; he was too worn out to care  what she did .

“Shoe,” Daisy ordered softly, holding out a hand as he sunk into one of the kitchen chairs. He blinked, and realized she was still holding the other. He stared at the floor as he pulled it off and handed it to her, as she left the kitchen to return both trainers to their place in the line by the door. As if they were going to be worn anywhere.

“You lied to the neighbors,” he said flatly when she returned. 

“I told you I’d do whatever I had to to keep you safe.”

He swallowed. “But it was a  _lie_ .” It had to be. He tried to come up with the words that would make her tell him the truth (if it was the truth he wanted it to be the truth). He held up a hand, scabbing wrist still exposed,  waved it a little . “They thought I tried to kill myself, but I  _didn’t_ .” 

He glanced up to see a panicked expression flit across Daisy’s face. “No, you didn’t. You hurt yourself on a pair of handcuffs.  W orse than I’ve ever seen anyone else manage.”  She said the last like it was supposed to be  some kind of inside joke, an echo of what she’d said at the time, but didn’t smile.

Something unknotted inside him at the implicit confirmation. He propped his head on the table, palms against his eyelids, and tried not to start crying again.  He’d… he’d try again. He wasn’t crazy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Questioning reality tw: Everyone Jon encounters acts in accordance with the lie Daisy disseminated about him having delusions and generally does the awkward polite ignoring thing you do if you see a little kid having a meltdown in public. Because of this and the general high emotions of a failed escape, Jon starts to wonder if the majority is actually right, and he's actually Daisy's adopted brother who has constructed an alternate narrative in his head, and looks for evidence to disprove this in the midst of a panic attack. The evidence of his injuries and Daisy answering questions eventually convinces him he's right an the kidnapping is real, but only after he wonders if Daisy's going to lie to him because making him believe the lie would be more convenient for her.
> 
> Catch me and writing updates @inklingofadream on tumblr!! <3 Thanks for reading!


	6. Tim- Now

Tim wanted to ask Jon if something had happened, but he had no idea how to do it tactfully. 

He had known Jon had a sister, through the handful of photos pinned to the walls of his cubicle and the occasional mention, maybe met her once or twice when she’d accompanied Jon the Institute holiday party? But since moving to the Archives, she seemed to be everywhere, bringing Jon lunch and helping haul boxes of files around. It could have been a show of support- he knew Jon was more nervous about the promotion than he let on- or a reflection of some change in Daisy’s own work schedule that Tim wasn’t privy to, but he didn’t think so. There was  a strange edge to her, like being in  the Archives was… unnerving? Dangerous? Maybe if you were afraid of paper cuts and falling bookcases . 

He wasn’t entirely sure his unease was founded in facts, though. Jon and his sister seemed close; watching her drape herself over his desk like an attention-seeking cat and pester him about eating hit at something inside Tim. Sasha had gotten good at anticipating when Daisy was coming for a visit, and steering Tim elsewhere without him realizing. If it had just been reminders, he would have protested more; he didn’t _mind_ thinking of Danny. But watching the Tonners interact was rarely _just_ a reminder; he always seemed to dream of that last night after seeing them together, more vividly than the usual echoes of the early days’ constant grieving agony. Some combination of the usual pain of seeing people get to interact with their _living_ siblings and something about Daisy herself, something nameless that set his teeth on edge whenever she was around. Something that had gotten more intense alongside the increased tension of the move to the Archives. He couldn’t bring himself to be upset with Sasha when he was so ineffective at hiding the dark circles under red-rimmed eyes from her. 

It  _was_ nice to watch them occasionally, even when it brought the nightmares back. He missed the easy give and take bickering that could only come from being present for one another’s formative years, and the reminder was nice. 

Not to mention it was rather satisfying to see that he wasn’t the only one willing to openly razz Jon. Sure, Sasha played her share of pranks and did her share of teasing, but she always kept plausible deniability. Tim had been afraid that the move to the Archives might change things, steal the easy jokes and physicality that had characterized their friendship thus far. Jon was more uptight about it all, but the grumbling about professionalism and perception and appropriate workplace behavior that followed from Tim giving him a noogie was nearly identical to the speech he made whenever Daisy ruffled his hair, and he hadn’t asked Tim to stop outright or shown any signs it made him uncomfortable, so Tim was going to keep prodding and elbowing and occasionally bodily carrying his boss for as long as he could get away with it. Someone as prickly as Jon probably needed the touch; lord  knew Tim did. 

If it weren’t for whatever it was about Daisy that seemed to trigger his nightmares, Tim thought they could probably be friends. They were the only two people he was aware of willing to really knock Jon down a peg when he got too caught up in the facade of the stuffy academic and became actually unbearable, so they already had that in common. Well, not counting Martin, but Tim was pretty sure the fallout of his politely oblivious rebuttals to the worst of Jon’s excesses were an unintended side effect. If he were on friendlier terms with Daisy, Tim could try to find out why she spent so much time hanging around the Institute nowadays straight from the source. He didn’t want to pry, but, well- he _really_ wanted to pry.

For now  though, he’d have to content himself with taking advantage of Daisy’s willingness to use her knowledge for evil.

There was something oddly giddy about standing side by side with his coworkers (and Daisy) in the dark, waiting for Jon to step into the kitchenette.  He and Sasha had to keep taking turns elbowing  and shushing each other, and even Martin’s normally demure presence had an edge of hilarity to it. 

Tim couldn’t help throwing his arms in the air for emphasis when Jon finally flicked the light on, grinning as he shouted along with the others. “Surprise!”

Jon  _squeaked_ , throwing his arms up as if he expected some kind of projectile. Tim lowered his arms, glancing at the others. Sasha had said this was Daisy’s idea, surely she wouldn’t have suggested it if she knew it would upset Jon?

“Happy- are you alright?” Sasha said.

Jon took half a step back, pressing a hand to his heart. “Yes, I’m- you startled me.” He shook himself, visibly pulling his “Head Archivist” face back on and trying to pretend the previous moments hadn’t happened. 

Tim followed Jon’s lead and propped his smile back up. “Happy birthday, boss!”

“You sure?” Daisy asked at almost the same time.

Jon shot her a weak glare. “The shock  _is_ a focal part of the surprise party… experience. Though the bottle of wine was fine.”

Tim snorted. “As a  _decoy_ .”

Sasha cut in, keeping up her part of the banter and smoothing over Jon’s rough edges and Martin’s awkwardness, though Tim thought she was just as aware as he was of how Jon had drifted to stand closer to Daisy.  Daisy herself joined in as the topic turned to Martin’s birthday, jabbing a teasing finger at Jon’s ribs as she joined in the commentary about his old man taste in ice cream,  dramatically reenacting Jon pressing his hand to his chest and faking a swoon .

“ I don’t think someone who’s unironically talked about how things were  _back in her day_ has any right to criticize my taste,” Jon was saying, giving Daisy a pinched glare with laughter behind the eyes, when they were interrupted. 

“Knock knock!” Elias leaned gracefully around the door frame. 

_Busted._ Hopefully they weren’t in trouble. “Double boss!”

Tim wasn’t the only one discomfited by the intrusion. Jon putting on his best face to try to impress Elias was predictable, as was Martin’s squirming, but out of the corner of his eye, Tim could see Daisy tense as well. When he grumblingly turned to retrieve the cake from the fridge, ears still tuned to Jon being interrogated about his age, he could see that her eyes were cold and hard, fixed unerringly on  Elias.

Where before she had joined them in teasing Jon, when Sasha called  out his real age (and how did  _she_ know? Tim had a sneaking suspicion that Daisy hadn’t  _actually_ been the one to propose the party) Daisy reached out to catch  Jon by the wrist and draw him in, tucking Jon’s head under her chin.  Jon tilted his head up, whispering to his sister, probably about embarrassing him in front of his boss, but Daisy didn’t let go.

She didn’t let go and she didn’t look away from Elias, all through the singing and cutting the cake, only accepting her own plate long enough to set it on the counter before returning to her two handed grip on Jon. When Elias used Jon’s title instead of his name during the song  (and right, yes, they probably should have been focused on work, but a little fun never hurt anyone) , Tim thought he heard a rumbling sound from Daisy’s corner, but he couldn’t identify it. It almost sounded like a growl. 

When Elias bowed out, making strange eye contact with Daisy as he made his excuses about his own workload and took his slice of cake back up to his office, Tim still had his eye on the siblings, and he saw when nearly all the tension seemed to leave Daisy, the moment Elias was out of sight. Suddenly, the joking, laughing Daisy of before was back, digging into her cake and pulling a camera from her bag, ordering them into various poses and combinations and handing off the camera so she could be in a few pictures herself until she had a stack of polaroids nearly three inches high. Weird.

-

In the midafternoon, when Daisy had left and nearly all the cake had been consumed and they were all a bit wine drunk and getting sleepy, Tim rolled his chair over to Sasha’s desk, past Martin’s bobbing head, and draped himself over the surface. “Did you  _lie_ to me about Daisy suggesting the party, Miss James?”

Sasha kept her eyes on her computer screen, fingers a blur. “Why would I do a thing like that, Mr. Stoker?”

“ _Did_ you go through Jon’s computer?”

“No!” This denial was more serious, only to be immediately followed by a sly smirk. “I hacked his employee file.”

“ _Sasha!”_

She turned her nose up. “All’s fair in love, war, and stolen promotions, Tim! All I want is a  _little_ bit of blackmail, and then Jon and I will be square!”

Tim huffed. “What, and you couldn’t find anything on his Facebook?”

Sasha’s eyes went distant, and her brow creased. She had stopped typing. “That’s the weird thing. Jon doesn’t have a Facebook. Or anything else. Unless he told you the handle of his secret Twitter account or something, I’ve searched every possible variation of his name on every social media site under the sun and haven’t found anything. Just the Institute website and his LinkedIn, and he hasn’t even updated that with his promotion. It’s  _weird_ .”

“ No secret Twitter,” Tim confirmed, “ What, no embarrassing MySpace pictures?”  He gazed up, only half processing her words, with a loopy grin on his face. He should probably be more discouraging of her invading Jon’s privacy like that, but he felt too fuzzy and happy to bother. 

Sasha slumped, propping her cheek on one hand. “Not yet. But  I’m going to find them eventually!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> dun dun dun! also... daisy in this au technically has like. well over a decade extra experience compared to her age. daisy acting like an old lady rights.


End file.
